Ahhhh, country songs, those melodies my kids used to scoff at but now embrace like the old man. I was country when country wasn’t cool, and now they’re cool with country.
But I digress. Let’s get back on point. I suppose that such an intro requires a backstory, so here it is: The occasion was a sleepover of Jack and his youngest sibling, Patrick, who was days away from his second birthday and who never had had a sleepover anywhere.
Although Kate and I had no qualms about it, Melissa and Skip were a tad nervous about their caboose being away from both Mommy and Daddy for his first overnight. They feared — Melissa confided to me that Skip was more fretful than she was, to which I say, “Yeah, RIGHT” — that the tot would wake up in the middle of the night, terrified at unfamiliar surroundings without a parental shoulder to cry on.
Were I a skeptical sort, I might acknowledge genuine parental concern, but I also might wonder, “Hmmmmmmm, I wonder whether they were the real fraidy cats, experiencing angst about their youngest’s passing such a milestone.” But I’m not a such a doubting Thomas, so I accepted their concern at face value: not wanting him to be scared, or us to be inconvenienced.
Melissa knew that I wouldn’t cry uncle, even if Patrick Michael were wailing in the desert of the night, because, as she often says, “You wouldn’t call me even if their hair was on fire.”
So far, I haven’t had to, because I’ve studiously kept the kids away from flames. Turns out, I didn’t have to that night, either.
Indeed, the four of us — me, Miss Kate (or, as Patrick says, Mi’Kate, Jack and Patrick) — were just watching TV in the living room when the caboose got up and went to the game room. Actually, I called it the game room when I was bachin’ it, and it was outfitted with a train set and a cheap little pool table, but the boys and I loved it.
That’s when I was a solitary man.
These days, with Mi’Kate as my bride and the lady of the house, the train’s in the attic and it’s called the guest room.
But I digress. As I was saying, Patrick went into the game room; er, the guest room, so I went to see what he was doing.
The little lad, the fella whose parents had worried that he would panic at bedtime and cry for mommy and daddy, had plopped himself into bed and was nodding off. Within seconds, he was asleep.
Later on, when it was time for all of us to go to bed, Jack was stewing a bit about what to do if he woke up in the night. Actually, he never had woke up in the night staying with me and later, with us, but it’s a dog thing.
Mi’Kate’s dogs, Jazzy and Dewey, are excitable when people arrive, and they jump a bit and wag their tails. That always puts Jack off for a bit, although he warms up when they settle down, and he’s quite good with those cockapoos.
But I guess he didn’t want them waking him up, so I assured him that I’d close them off from the game room, uh, the guest room, with our gates, and he should just holler to me.
Then everybody went to sleep. Next thing I heard was Jack saying, “Papa Mike.”
Problem is, he apparently had forgotten my directive to holler from the kitchen, and he was standing at our bedroom door.
His plea to me startled Dewey, who jumped up and started barking his dadgum head off. Jack screamed bloody murder and went running back to the game room, uh, guest room, faster than Jesse Owens.
Jack and Dewey, during calmer, daytime hours.So I ran to settle him down, fretting all the while that he was so petrified that I’d have to take him home in the middle of the night. Of course, Patrick was wide awake.
“Did you come get me because Patrick woke up?” I said.
“No, he was asleep,” Jack said, still sniffing a bit. “I just woke up and needed you.”
DOH! So, Patrick, who was expected to be the troublesome one, was doing FINE, until he woke up. Even then, though, he wasn’t a problem. He looked at me plaintively and said, “Mi’Kate?”
He then walked to our bedroom, confirmed that Mi’Kate was there, and went back to the game room, uh, guest room. I figured I’d NEVER get him to sleep, but I plopped down next to him to try and, within seconds, he was asleep.
Jack asked whether I’d stay there with him, so I figured I’d do so until he fell asleep. Except, he had a heckuva time giving in to the Sandman. He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed. And tossed. And turned.
I thought he’d NEVER go to sleep, when I heard him say, “Papa Mike, your snoring is keeping me awake.”
Well, I NEVER! Obviously, I had nodded off, and apparently, although he’s the only witness, was snoring. So I resolved to stay awake until he fell asleep.
Next thing I heard was Jack saying, “WELL, I can’t sleep without ya, and I can’t sleep WITH ya!”
I must have nodded off, I guess, but that observation, from a 6-year-old, sent me into fits of laughter. It just seemed like a charming, and hilarious, way to wrap up the night.
I managed to stay awake long enough for him to go to sleep, and the rest of the night was uneventful.
And Patrick’s sleepover was a success. No problems, no hassles, no night terrors. Except for snoring.
Patrick, the sleepover guest with nooooooo problems.
Sooooooo, if Jack can’t sleep without me, and he can’t sleep WITH me, we’ll close with one of Tammy Wynette’s signature songs, in hopes I quit S-N-O-R-I-N-G.
’Cuz I’ll stand by that little man.
Oh, I don’t want to leave you with the blues, so let’s cue up the Blues Brothers:
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